The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(4)

‘Don’t suppose you managed to lift any prints?’ Ryan could hope.

‘Not even a partial.’ Pete’s voice was muffled by the material covering his mouth. ‘It’s not been here long – it’s too clean for that.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Someone hightailed it out of here in a hurry. Take a look near the door.’

Ryan glanced in the general direction. Pete was no slouch. There were uneven marks in the dust near the entrance, evidence that would suggest someone moving at speed, scuffing their feet as they fled.

The killer, he supposed.

O’Neil’s mobile beeped an incoming text. She turned away to access it. Seconds later, she pocketed the device, eyes trained on the shoe, an avoidance tactic if ever Ryan had seen one.

‘I wonder if she left the shoe there on purpose,’ she said.

Pete looked up, a question in his eyes: she?

O’Neil looked away.

Ryan managed not to react. The content of that message was serious, enough for her to take her eye off the ball. Quick as a flash, he covered for her, his focus back on the CSI. ‘That goes no further, Big Ears. It’s information way above your pay grade.’

‘Understood.’ The eyes behind the mask were smiling. ‘Discretion is my middle name.’

Ryan could see that O’Neil was cursing herself for letting her guard down. He’d spent years in Special Branch, working undercover, living with the knowledge that the smallest slip of the tongue had the potential to cost lives, so a high level of secrecy came as second nature. That wasn’t something she’d had to contend with in Professional Standards.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her floundering and he hated to see her that way. From a shaky start – their first encounter had found them on opposing sides of a disciplinary action – she’d grown on him. No, more than that. A strong bond had developed between them, a chemistry that wasn’t easy to define. It intrigued and excited him.

He dropped his voice to a whisper, reassuring her that the crime scene investigator was a man who could be trusted.

Her expression remained troubled.

‘Guv, is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘I’ll explain later.’ O’Neil put her hand on his forearm, preventing him from moving off. ‘Thanks, Ryan.’

He threw her a smile. ‘Don’t mention it.’

‘This scene is much the same as Brighton: bloody but clean. Looks like our offender is forensically aware.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me. She doesn’t seem the type to compromise her safety by leaving physical evidence for us to find. On the tape, she was clinical. Flat calm. Not an agitated killer looking over her shoulder. She sounds like a woman on a mission to me.’

‘On the phone too,’ O’Neil said. ‘I can’t get that voice out of my head.’

Ryan could still hear the voice in his own head, but it was vying for attention with thoughts of his new role and responsibilities, the information O’Neil had given him on the way over, her uncharacteristic lapse in concentration a moment ago, and all the while he was trying to process details of the crime scene in front of him and identify any that didn’t match the DVD footage. O’Neil’s voice took him in another direction . . .

‘The time and date on the DVD can’t be relied upon.’ Her observation was spot on; the perpetrator could have tampered with the camera to throw them off the scent. ‘Then again, most of this blood is dry, so it’s possible whatever happened in here did take place on Sunday as the counter suggests.’

Ryan nodded his agreement.

Time and forensics would tell.

Being at the crime scene was like watching the DVD all over again. Blinking as a camera flash went off in the entrance to the lock-up, he surveyed the ceiling, visualizing the footage he’d seen at HQ, forcing the stream of thoughts racing through his mind to slow down so he could focus. There was something odd, something missing. He scanned the lock-up. ‘She must’ve been standing right here when she was filming,’ he said. ‘Give or take a few feet.’

O’Neil agreed. ‘The angle is consistent with the video.’

Fortunately, they were standing on tread plates to preserve evidence and avoid contamination. Ryan locked eyes with her. ‘I’ll say one thing, she’s a dab hand with a camera. There was no discernible wobble on that recording.’

‘She could have used a tripod.’

‘She could.’ He crouched down again to examine the dusty floor. ‘There’s no evidence to suggest that here though.’ He stood up. ‘She must have an accomplice, guv. Even if the victim is female, wouldn’t a woman struggle to shift a dead weight on her own?’

‘Not necessarily. Most coppers, firefighters, and half the nurses I’ve ever met could do it.’ O’Neil swept a strand of red fringe from tired eyes. Under that tough exterior, Ryan sensed anxiety, not that he’d ever tell her that. She looked at him, perplexed. ‘Why move the victim? It would have been a damned sight easier and a lot less risky to leave her here.’

Ryan frowned. ‘The woman in the video said, “They both deserved to die.” Maybe more than one victim’s been moved.’

O’Neil corrected him. ‘What she actually said was, “They both deserved it,” which means we can’t be sure we’re dealing with murder, serious assault or torture.’